And self-reproach with frequent blushes teem:
While of my frenzy, shame the fruit I find,
And sad repentance, and the proof, dear-bought,
That the world's joy is but a flitting dream.

CHARLEMONT.

HE BLAMES LOVE FOR WOUNDING HIM ON A HOLY DAY.

'Twas on the morn, when heaven its blessed ray
In pity to its suffering master veiled,
First did I, Lady, to your beauty yield,
Of your victorious eyes th' unguarded prey.
Ah! little recked I that, on such a day,
Needed against Love's arrows any shield;
And trod, securely trod, the fatal field:

Whence, with the world's, began my heart's dismay.
On every side Love found his victim bare,

And through mine eyes transfixed my throbbing heart;
Those eyes which now with constant sorrows flow:
But poor the triumph of his boasted art,

Who thus could pierce a naked youth, nor dare

To you in armour mailed even to display his bow! WRANGHAM.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF LAURA, PAINTED BY SIMON MEMMI.

Had Policletus seen her, or the rest
Who, in past time, won honour in this art,
A thousand years had but the meaner part
Shown of the beauty which o'ercame my breast.
But Simon sure, in Paradise the blest,
Whence came this noble lady of my heart,
Saw her, and took this wondrous counterpart,
Which should on earth her lovely face attest.
The work, indeed, was one, in heaven alone
To be conceived, not wrought by fellow-men,

Over whose souls the body's veil is thrown:
'Twas done of grace; and failed his pencil when
To earth he turned our cold and heat to bear,
And felt that his own eyes but mortal were.

MACGREGOR.

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

That window where my sun is often seen
Refulgent, and the world's at morning hours;
And that where Boreas blows, when winter lowers,
And the short days reveal a clouded scene;
That bench of stone, where, with a pensive mien,
My Laura sits, forgetting beauty's powers;
Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers,
And her feet press the paths or herbage green:
The place where Love assailed me with success ;
And spring, the fatal time that, first observed,
Revives the keen remembrance every year;
With looks and words, that o'er me have preserved
A power no length of time can render less,
Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.

PENN.

HE IS BEWILDERED AT THE UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL OF LAURA.

As Love his arts in haunts familiar tried,
Watchful as one expecting war is found,
Who all foresees, and guards the passes round,
I in the armour of old thoughts relied:

Turning, I saw a shadow at my side

Cast by the sun, whose outline on the ground
I knew for hers, who (be my judgment sound)
Deserves in bliss immortal to abide.
I whispered to my heart, Nay, wherefore fear?
But scarcely did the thought arise within,

Than the bright rays in which I burn were here.
As thunders with the lightning-flash begin,
So was I struck at once both blind and mute,
By her dear dazzling eyes and sweet salute.

MACGREGOR.

COULD HE BUT SEE THE HOUSE OF LAURA, HIS SIGHS MIGHT REACH HER MORE QUICKLY.

If, which our valley bars, this wall of stone,
From which its present name we closely trace,
Were by disdainful nature rased, and thrown
Its back to Babel and to Rome its face:
Then had my sighs a better pathway known
To where their hope is yet in life and grace:
They now go singly, yet my voice all own,
And, where I send, not one but finds its place.
There too, as I perceive, such welcome sweet
They ever find, that none returns again,
But still delightedly with her remain.

My grief is from the eyes, each morn to meet—
Not the fair scenes my soul so longed to see-
Toil for my weary limbs and tears for me.

MACGREGOR.

THOUGH HE IS UNHAPPY, HIS LOVE REMAINS EVER UNCHANGED.

My sixteenth year of sighs its course has run,

I stand alone, already on the brow

Where Age descends: and yet it seems as now
My time of trial only were begun.

'Tis sweet to love, and good to be undone;
Though life be hard, more days may Heaven allow
Misfortune to outlive; else Death may bow
The bright head low my loving praise that won.
Here am I now, who fain would be elsewhere;

More would I wish, and yet no more I would;
I could no more, and yet did all I could:

And new tears born of old desires declare

That still I am as I was wont to be,

And that a thousand changes change not me.

MACGREGOR.

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF VAUCLUSE CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH.

Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams,

Which the fair shape, who seems

To me sole woman, haunted at noon-tide;

Fair bough, so gently fit,

(I sigh to think of it,)

Which lent a pillow to her lovely side;

And turf, and flowers bright-eyed,

O'er which her folded gown

Flowed like an angel's down;

And you, O holy air and hushed,

Where first my heart at her sweet glances gushed;

Give ear, give ear, with one consenting,

To my last words, my last and my lamenting.

If 'tis my fate below,

And Heaven will have it so,

That Love must close these dying eyes in tears,

May my poor dust be laid

In middle of your shade,

While my soul, naked, mounts to its own spheres.

The thought would calm my fears,

When taking, out of breath,

The doubtful step of death;

For never could my spirit find

A stiller port after the stormy wind;

Nor in more calm, abstracted bourne,

Slip from my travailed flesh, and from my bones outworn.

Perhaps, some future hour,

To her accustomed bower

Might come the untamed, and yet the gentle she;

And where she saw me first,

Might turn with eyes athirst,

And kinder joy to look again on me;

Then, O the charity!

Seeing amidst the stones

The earth that held my bones,

A sigh for very love at last.

Might ask of Heaven to pardon me the past:

And Heaven itself could not say nay,

As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away.

How well I call to mind,

When from those boughs the wind

Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower;

And there she sat, meek-eyed,

In midst of all that pride,

Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower.

Some to her hair paid dower,

And seemed to dress the curls,

Queenlike, with gold and pearls;

Some, snowing, on her drapery stopped,

Some on the earth, some on the water dropped;

While others, fluttering from above,

Seemed wheeling round in pomp, and saying, "Here reigns

Love!"

How often then I said,

Inward, and filled with dread,

"Doubtless this creature came from Paradise!"

For at her look the while,

Her voice, and her sweet smile,

And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes;
So that, with long-drawn sighs,